Chapter 19
The eight-storey office block which housed Thomas’s firm was a grandiose affair, faced in red granite with a long, expansive walkway leading down to the main entrance. On either side were rows of pine trees in huge earthenware pots. All of them had been neatly trimmed and perfectly matched each other to create a sombre atmosphere like the scene in the painting 'The Isle of the Dead'. Above the entrance was a high atrium window. Once inside, another broad, open space stretched before them, at the end of which was a very long front desk. Four receptionists were busy taking telephone calls. To either side were enormous Grecian urns burning bright yellow flames around four feet high. The effect of this momentarily startled Ashby and he felt as if he’d walked onto a film set.
“Rather like a temple of the gods, isn’t it ? For human sacrifices.”
The building impressed the visitor with outlandish expense (which was subsidised by clients such as Plantation and companies like it.)
After signing in, they were taken to a second smaller reception on one of the upper floors where Thomas met them personally. After taking them into his office, he led them to a patio where there was a panoramic view of the Thames and the Pool of London : a stone’s throw away was the Tower of London to the east. Tower Bridge loomed so large and so close that Ashby could see the ironwork beneath the bascules. Straight across the river, the old battleship, the Belfast stood at its moorings behind which there was much building work going on day and night, re-developing the Victorian bond warehouses. On the river, police motor cruisers, pleasure-boats, lighters and yachts drifted up and down. To the west were the blank, grey arches of London Bridge, peered over by the modernist edifice of Guy’s Hospital and an equally ugly office block. Southwark Bridge could be seen further down.
“Inspiring, isn’t it ?” said Thomas, above the echoed din of a pile-driver thumping out from across the river.
“Your rent must be high, so close to the Thames,” said Ashby.
“We own the freehold so it isn’t a worry for us.”
Thomas had enough syndicates and brokers clamouring for his talents that he could buy the entire block.
Meanwhile, Whittingham had taken in the scene many times in the past, mostly when drunk at the firm’s conferences and evening sessions. He was no longer swept away by his host’s workplace.
The tour had been put on to let Ashby see that Thomas’s firm was no corner shop. Instead, he was reminded of the American law firms he knew.
After collecting their bags, all four of them (including Thomas’s articled clerk) walked up to the Monument, caught an underground train to the Temple and ambled their way up Essex Street and into Middle Temple.
Number 20 Hare Court overlooked tranquil Middle Temple Gardens on one side and noisy Middle Temple Lane on the other. In those days, before the Temple was barricaded against the outside world, it was used by taxis to cut through to Fleet Street and the Strand. There was constant noise and traffic, human and vehicular, in the vicinity of Middle Temple Hall with clients and solicitors coming and going, lunches and dinners in the Hall on a daily basis and deliveries to all the surrounding buildings at every hour of the working day and early evening.
20 Hare Court was a set of barristers ‘chambers’ (to use the quaint Victorian term for offices). Most of its ‘junior’ members had been at the bar for less than fifteen years and were in their late twenties or thirties. All of them were piled into rooms which they shared on the noisy side overlooking the lane. The ‘senior’ barristers were accorded the more contemplative offices and were able to work in peace and quiet.
A clerk showed them into a waiting room overlooking the laneway and taxis roaring past the window every so often. After kicking their heels for half an hour, they were at last shown into a splendidly grand workroom decorated with rich green wallpaper, gold framed engravings and a marble fireplace. One or two marble busts in classical poses looked on and a large oil portrait of a Georgian aristocrat or banker hung over the fireplace.
In the centre of the room stood an oak banker’s desk with drawers on both sides. Facing it was a large table covered in mounds of paperwork, some tied up in red ribbon, some in green ribbon and the rest in black, lever arch files slotted into makeshift cardboard bookcases. Amidst the clutter, a bottle green banker’s lamp illuminated the paperwork on the desk. Beside it sat a black oval-shaped tin with ‘W.Stonehouse’ embossed in letters of gold on the lid ; inside was a battered horsehair wig, grey with age.
“Please excuse the disarray,” said a tall man with half-moon glasses, greying hair and an academic bearing. “It’s always like this when I’m part heard.” He was wearing a dark pin-striped suit, white shirt and pin-on collar and had returned the previous day from arguing a case in Hong Kong. His manner was slightly taciturn and he seemed impatient to get through the conference as quickly as possible.
A minion was despatched for two more chairs and after the visitors organised themselves and got out their files and notes, a knock was heard at the door. Another man in a dark grey suit, wearing spectacles with thin gold frames, apologised for his lateness and summoned another chair.
After yet another knock at the door and a tray of tea-pots, cups and saucers was brought in, Whittingham introduced Ashby to William Stonehouse QC, their senior barrister in the Captain Stratos claim and Edward Fulton, the junior barrister.
“Mr Stonehouse, Robert is the son of our recently deceased founder, Mr James Ashby.”
“Please accept our condolences, Mr Ashby. I didn’t have an opportunity to meet your father but by all accounts, he was a most remarkable man.”
Ashby gave a look in the direction of the paperwork in front of everyone and said “I suppose we should make a start.”
“Quite,” said Stonehouse. “Well, we have a trial date next week if I recall correctly and we need to decide where we’re going with it, don’t we ?”
“May I just say something at this stage ?” said Fulton to the four visitors who were drinking their tea and looking for a space somewhere to dispose of the empty cups and saucers.
“William and I have spent some time discussing Plantation’s defence, Mr Ashby – and we’ve also spoken to Clive about our thoughts,” with a look in the direction of Thomas, “and it is our firm view that this will be a difficult claim to oppose. I’m afraid there’s no way of avoiding the facts, unfortunately. Almost all of the evidence – what there is of it – is stacked against us. We really don’t have a lot to go on. And as the old saying goes, ‘you can’t build bricks without straw’.”
Ashby gave a look of bewilderment. “I’m sorry, I haven’t read fully into the papers yet….I only just arrived back from the States yesterday, so you’ll have to bring me up to date with what’s been going on.”
“I am sorry. I hadn’t been made aware of that,” said Fulton with another side-ways look at Thomas. “Perhaps I should begin from the start,” and he described how the Greek owners of the freighter, the Captain Stratos had begun their claim against Plantation eighteen months earlier in the Admiralty Court in London for almost twenty million pounds. The ship had sunk in what was reported to have been a storm off the southern-most tip of the Portuguese peninsula, after hitting uncharted rocks or a submerged wreck. Aside from the ship itself, the Captain, crew and cargo had all been lost.
“Now, the only evidence which has come to light of the sinking is that of the Portuguese coast guard and a number of other vessels who were in the area on the same night. The weather was extremely bad. The coast guard was unable to scramble any of its helicopters based in Porto. Two of the ships answering the distress call arrived at the position given where the ship went down. They failed to observe anything floating in the water which could indicate the position of the wreck or how the accident had occurred. Both the coast guard authorities and the Captain of one of the ships in the area, had spoken to the master of the Stratos in person at around a quarter to three in the morning. The Captain confirmed to them the circumstan
ces of the accident, what caused the sinking, the latitude and longitude of his ship and what was happening at the time of those conversations. Several affidavits were sworn by witnesses from the coast guard and the other ships. Mr Whittingham should have received these some months ago.”
“I did see one or two statements, yes….” said Ashby. “But can someone explain to me – do we know for certain that the Captain Stratos went down with all hands and that nothing was recovered and no-one was rescued.”
Stonehouse, the impatient schoolmaster, delivered the explanation.
“The ship sank in over a thousand feet of water. It would therefore be extremely difficult, if not prohibitively expensive to send divers down to that depth to look over the wreck. To begin with, they would have to find the Captain Stratos’ exact location. As, you can imagine, in an emergency situation where a ship is sinking rapidly and the Captain is trying to make contact with a rescue party, it would have been easy for errors in positioning to have been made. In such a situation, we can only go on what we have which is a, the witness evidence and b, the obvious facts that the owners no longer have a ship, the charterers do not have a cargo which was not delivered and the families of the Captain and crew are all without their husbands, fathers, brothers and so on who have not returned.”
“Is there any possibility that the ship could have been wrecked for the money which the owners are now pursuing ? We are, after all, talking about a considerable sum, are we not ? Was any of the cargo washed up on the coast ? Were any bodies washed up on the beach ? ”
“We did look into that,” said Thomas. “There were twenty two crewmen along with the Captain and three hundred tonnes of cargo, not to mention the ship itself. If any of them had come to light, we would have known by now.”
“It would have been impossible to hide them. Where could you hide three hundred tonnes of cargo and an entire ship ? said Whittingham. “No, it went down alright and we’re on the hook, aren’t we ?”
“I regret to say that you are,” replied Stonehouse.
“But consider the data,” said Ashby.
“Data ? What data ?” asked Fulton.
“The scientific data, albeit limited as it is. I’ve very briefly looked into the statistical background to the sparse information we have. For example, sinking of vessels in the immediate region where the Captain Stratos went down has been very, very limited – from the historical information available. Also, the ocean currents in that specific area are relatively calm where the Atlantic meets the Mediterranean. Not only that, the severity of storm activity during the past seventy five years, from a meteorological perspective, has been quite moderate.”
“What are you suggesting ?”
“On one view, the probability that a ship could sink without trace in the conditions I’ve described, is highly unlikely.”
“But not impossible.”
“Anything is possible. But this is an indication that the accepted account of events – that the ship sank without trace – is unsound.”
“All of that leads us nowhere,” said Stonehouse.
“But doesn’t it at least point to some base assumptions ? We would be foolish to ignore them,” said Ashby.
“Unfortunately, I have to say you are wasting your time and fighting the claim will just be throwing good money after bad,” said Stonehouse.
Ashby was undaunted and persisted. “You’re only looking at the event – the sinking of the ship – from an evidential perspective. You’re asking us to prove what happened. But we can’t do that because we don’t know what happened. My view is that we could find the proof if we had more time.”
“If you’re looking for the hearing to be adjourned while you carry out further enquiries, Mr Ashby, I have to tell you there is no chance of the judge agreeing to that. The hearing will go ahead whether you are ready or not. Edward ? What is your view ?”
“I have to say I agree,” came the reply.
Ashby was bemused that this was being said, two years after the claim had been made, with a trial date staring them in the face within a matter of days.
“You do realise that this is a substantial claim for us ?” he said. “Probably one of the largest in the London market at the moment. It will destroy us if we’re ordered to pay. What negotiating strategy would you recommend ?”
“To be frank,” said Stonehouse, “I don’t think you have any.”
By this time, Ashby was having to suppress his anger. “You don’t have anything to suggest to us which could result in the amount of the claim being reduced or how we could deal with it in a liquidation ?”
Stonehouse ignored this and said disdainfully, “I’m afraid not. I’m not an insolvency specialist – are you Edward ? No, I thought not. You will have to consult someone else, Mr Ashby about appointing a liquidator.”
Their ‘client’ could only glare at them and say : “I see. Well, I won’t detain you any further.”
In the awkward silence that then ensued, the four visitors collected their papers, files and bags and departed. Outside, Thomas said that if his firm and the barristers were to be fronting at court for Plantation the following week, there was the small matter of seventy five thousand pounds : this would have to be paid to him no later than the day after tomorrow. He’d earlier decided that without funds in advance, he and his firm wouldn’t be doing anything further ; that also went for Stonehouse and Fulton ; none of them would lift a finger without money to cover their bills.
“That doesn’t leave us much time,” said Ashby with a look in the direction of Whittingham.
“Uh, I did tell your father about it….” came the response.
While the solicitors said they were headed for Fleet Street, Ashby prodded Whittingham in the opposite direction. On the way back to Fenchurch St, he said nothing.
As soon as they got in the door, he said to Whittingham : “We need to have a chat – in my father’s….in my office.”